Magdalena's Shadow, page 21
“Time to go.” Tom walked into her bedroom.
“I know,” Coco sighed, popping the pills into her mouth. She opened her water bottle and drank them down.
“This is Maria. She’ll be handling your wardrobe.” Tom indicated a short plump Italian girl standing next to a rack of hangers, each hung with a tiny bit of black material. Coco prayed for courage. She imagined all the places the ribbon-like undergarments would go. After hair and makeup Coco slipped into the first piece, a tiny black pair of minimalist panties decorated with pin sized white polka dots. No bra accessorized the panties. Pulling her hair over her shoulders, Coco hid her breasts as best she could before slipping onto the set.
The photographer was a small Frenchman with bloodshot eyes who barked quick orders at the Italian staff in French. After several moments he noticed Coco standing silently before his camera. The little man didn’t smile.
“You look like a frightened little girl.” he yelled, his heavy French accent warping his English.
“How would you like me to look?” Coco asked.
“I like frightened little girls.” He adjusted the hair that fell over her right breast before returning to his camera. His instructions were concise and easy to follow: cross your arms, pout a little, drop your chin to the right. Coco followed his every direction, and he seemed satisfied with her, until he gave her a direction she couldn’t follow. “Now look like you just had sex,” he said while adjusting his lens, his eye watching her through the viewfinder.
Coco stood still for a moment, at a loss. She tried to think back to the one time she’d had sex and her face grew sad.
“No! No!” the little man yelled. “I said sexy, not sad.”
“I’m only eighteen,” Coco interrupted, but her excuse made him laugh.
“If you were a French girl you would know what I mean.”
After several more attempts at “sexy,” he threw his hands in the air and disappeared through a side door, returning minutes later with a boy in a black Speedo. The boy stepped onto the set smiling. Coco stepped quickly off the other side.
“No! No! No!” The Frenchman yelled. “Back up on the stage now.”
Coco stepped back onto the set, standing as far from the dark haired male model as she could. He was beautiful; he was young, Italian, and he was thoroughly enjoying her embarrassed confusion.
“Come here,” he laughed and held out a hand.
“Why would I do that?” Coco asked sharply, turning her resentment on the photographer. “No one mentioned this.”
“Are you a model?” The Frenchman yelled the question. “If you are, then model as you’re told. If you aren’t, then put on some clothes and get the fuck out!”
Coco’s eyes widened while the boy laughed.
“Come on. We’ll have fun,” he coaxed.
Coco took a slight step toward him. “You’ll have fun,” she corrected and took his hand, coming to stand next to him. She felt like Eve, ashamed in her nakedness. The only difference was that Adam was having a great time, and they both needed more fig leaves. Before she could attempt a second protest the boy wrapped his arm around her waist pulling her gently to him.
“You’re okay,” he whispered when she stiffened, his lips brushing the back of her neck, his fingers running down the sides of her waist to rest on her ribbon-clad hips.
“Yes, good,” the Frenchman barked. Lights were adjusted. A fan switched on blowing Coco’s hair free from her shoulders.
Slowly Coco relaxed and began to move with this unknown man, directed by the photographer’s constant commands. But when Coco turned to face the camera he yelled. “No! No! No! You are too sober. You need to look drunk on sex, like you just had sex, please.”
The boy kissed her neck, tracing her waist and hips with his fingers before pressing his lips to her jaw. He ran his hands down the side seams of her panties again before turning her toward him, leaving her back to the camera. The first kiss was gentle, asking if a second would be okay. When Coco didn’t protest, he kissed her again, careful not to smudge her makeup or frighten her. A subtle wave of peace passed through her. Cautiously, she breathed in his scent, felt his fingers teasing her body. Slowly, he turned her toward the camera, her eyes unfocused, her lips parted.
“Yes,” the photographer called, happily snapping away. “This American is not made of ice after all.”
Six wardrobe changes later Coco was alone again on stage and attired in nude-colored doe skin panties and a push-up bra, her hair piled on top of her head with only a few tendrils curling around her face. When Jean the photographer asked her to “look like sex,” she instantly softened into the mask of sensuality he wanted without any help.
“You don’t look as golden as I would like.” Jean stared at her thoughtfully. “Add more gold bronzer.” He motioned the makeup artist forward. With a bronzing pencil the artist gilded Coco’s eyes. Yet still the look wasn’t what the photographer wanted.
“Dust her in gold and paint a copper toned tattoo on her left arm.”
The makeup artist shrugged. “What of?”
“N.V.,” Tom suggested, wandering in from another room where he had been lounging.
Jean nodded slowly, signaling the artist with a wave of his hand. Several minutes later Coco had a copper colored oil pencil tattoo on her upper arm. Her own initials branded on her body in gold dusted Romanesque lettering.
“Take down her hair,” Jean waved in the stylist, “and mess it up.”
Minutes later he was back behind his camera with Coco crouched on the floor, her hair carefully thrown around her, the copper tattoo dusted with gold powder, glimmering through the wayward strands that shrouded her. The look was fierce yet fragile, creating an image that spoke to the heart of sensuous love, golden sunshine, and exotic pleasures that only Coco understood. Slowly, imperceptibly, as the shoot wrapped for the night, Coco, the supermodel’s daughter, became N.V. the icon.
“That went well.” Tom got into a taxi an hour later with Coco sliding in beside him. She felt too tired and hungry to reply. “So,” he scrolled through his digital calendar, “a light dinner and then a party about an hour outside of Rome. I’ve got the directions in here. We’ll GPS them,” he added happily. Coco watched him, his features awash in digital light.
“I’m so tired, Tom. Can’t we skip the party?”
“It’s Paolo’s party on his country estate. You remember Paolo, don’t you? You should. Everything you have modeled since you came here has been his.”
“Yes. I remember Paolo.” Coco’s response lacked enthusiasm.
“So cheer up and stop whining. You don’t want to disappoint him, now do you?”
After the light dinner Coco changed into a little silver dress and slipped into a silver fur to wait for Tom in the hotel lobby. The drive to the estate took well over an hour. Coco fell asleep as the car wound its way out of the city toward the hillside. When the car stopped, Tom woke her by opening the door. The moment Coco moved to get up, a jagged pain shot through her legs, the result of standing in stilettos for hours in a body that was still healing.
Tom watched her quietly before turning to his bag. He rifled through the contents until he found a small bottle of something and poured a shot into the cap. “This will wake you up and take the pain away.”
“I can’t mix alcohol with my painkillers.” Coco looked away from the offered shot.
“It’s juice.” Tom pressed the shot into her hand.
“And what else?” Coco looked suspicious.
“Mmm… nothing that’ll hurt you.” Tom smiled sweetly, coaxing the shot to her lips.
Coco sipped the juice, finding mango and orange mixed with a hint of something more tropical, maybe pineapple.
“Just good old vitamin C,” Tom laughed, shaking his head at her. The grin that followed was not altogether reassuring.
Several minutes later Coco felt refreshed but in an ethereal, hyper-alert way. Tom escorted her toward the enormous stone house that loomed above them. She leaned heavily on Tom’s arm as they walked carefully up the steps into the crowded interior.
“I have to go see someone but I’ll be back in a bit.” Tom spoke loudly over the music, his lips close to her ear. Coco couldn’t hear him. She was no longer herself. A heightened color painted her cheeks. Her eyes glowed luminously bright. Tom smiled as he looked at her. “I’ll go tell Paolo you are here.”
“Was there a painkiller in the juice, Tom?” But he was already gone. Coco became suddenly distracted by lingering traces of movement that followed her fingers.
Tom didn’t return and Paolo was nowhere to be found. Coco stood alone in the crush of unfamiliar people who drank and chatted in the dizzying thump of discordant music. Moment by moment the painkillers mixed further with Tom’s drug. An unsteady feeling took over Coco’s limbs. Her heart felt heavy in her chest triggering a desperate need for fresh air and open space. Her entire body felt wired with life. The room shifted and undulated, creating things that couldn’t possibly be there. Every time the bass thumped the chandelier shot sparkling bits of light out into the room. Like fireworks, Coco thought and smiled, trying to catch them.
She walked from the house into the less populated winter courtyard where a fountain stood in the center. The heavy silver fur she had worn during their journey lay forgotten on the couch inside. Everything in the courtyard looked vivid with life. The water in the fountain splashed mercury colored droplets, which glistened in the moonlight. Coco leaned over the stone edge, catching the metallic tears in her hand. She felt suddenly happy in a way she hadn’t felt since she’d… she quickly pushed Rob far from her mind.
A man approached and watched her dip her hand wrist deep into the fountain, raising it slowly as the mercury-like water ran thickly down her fingers, dripping slowly, sensuously off her long natural nails.
“This is my favorite part of the garden,” he smiled, continuing to watch her childish delight.
Coco smiled up at him before rubbing the water between her fingertips. It felt cool, the way water should, but it still looked like molten silver. Slowly, as the water dried away in the winter chill, Coco was able to see that it was Paolo who had come to join her. He was older than she remembered, maybe forty-five, with thick black hair sprinkled with silver. His skin was a lovely shade of olive, his features strong-lined and masculine. His height and masculinity reminded her of Rob. Coco looked away from Paolo, suddenly embarrassed.
“I’ve never been anywhere so beautiful.” She gestured to her surroundings.
“And I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.”
Coco shook the water from her fingers over the fountain, a soft smile touching upon her lips. Rob had flirted with her in the same way. He had been fooled by her beauty. He had suffered. “You shouldn’t be taken in by my looks, Paolo.” She shook her head, her expression growing serious. “I’m not a woman at all. I’m really just a little girl.” She swayed suddenly where she sat, her eyes cast back on the water.
Paolo caught her shoulder, steadying her, his expression shifting from interest to concern.
“Little girls grow up.” He watched her slender fingers dip back toward the fountain. His hand followed hers, holding her fingers from the frigid water. Slowly he helped her to stand. “I think that you’ll spend the evening with me. I think it’s no good allowing the prettiest little girl in Rome to wander alone in the garden without her coat on.”
They walked out of the quiet courtyard toward the glowing party inside. Coco didn’t feel the cold late winter breeze that blew dead leaves in circles around her feet, nor did she feel the exhaustion that had gripped her body on arrival. She felt light and free: all her burdens, all her guilt, lifted as if by a miracle.
Together they entered a room hung with golden chandeliers and renaissance tapestries. People stood chatting everywhere. Tuxedoed waiters moved elegantly through the crowd with crystal champagne glasses held high on silver trays. The room pulsed with energy, music, and movement. Coco passed through the scene feeling as if she were walking through an old-world movie. Paolo held her hand securely in his. Before them several logs burned in a massive fireplace. But the crowd grew too thick and Coco lost hold of him. She froze in the press of bodies, her addled mind not knowing what to do.
Paolo quickly found her again, his soft eyes searching hers before he again led her toward the warming fire. “Come and see my painting,” he said gently in her ear, his nose grazing the dark curls of hair Coco wore pinned like a crown on her head.
The scent of his skin, the brush of his lips, and the gentle tone of his voice reassured her. Coco followed him slowly to the far side of the room where the painting of a willowy black-haired girl hung in an ancient golden frame over the fire.
“Familiar?” He smiled at Coco, his eyes sparkling in the light. The girl in the painting looked like a mixed image of Magdalena and herself.
“It’s incredible,” Coco laughed. “Who is she? She looks like a Rodriguez.”
“She’s one of my ancestors. But I’ll tell everyone that it’s you, and tonight they will believe me.” He smiled and lifted the hand he still held to his lips, kissing the palm.
Coco felt awkward dancing with Paolo for the first time. When he took her in his arms before the fire she hadn’t known what to expect. Now their two bodies moved slowly to a languid Italian love song, while Paolo’s hand slid to the small of Coco’s back.
“You haven’t danced like this before?” he asked. “I know how little Americans dance together. I think it’s good for you to dance with me now… and if you like dancing, maybe you’ll like other things, too.”
Coco laughed at his direct way of talking. “I imagine I will,” she smiled, glancing away from his soft dark eyes.
“Good, then maybe we should skip dancing and go straight to kissing? But not until after this song, it’s one of my favorites.”
Coco had to admit she liked it, too.
There was something childlike and sweet about the way Paolo D’Ambrosia kissed her openly in the warmth by the hearth, and later on the sofa with all his guests milling around. For a girl who had never had a childhood sweetheart to practice with, it was refreshing to play innocently with a man; and she found that the world gained a drunken luster when Paolo nibbled her ear in between chatting with his friends about politics or soccer. She liked the way he played with the ends of her hair and slid his fingers along her arm, asking her if she would like some chocolate made that day in Belgium or perhaps another glass of wine. His honeyed voice slipped musically between beautiful Italian and fluent English. He seemed to enjoy talking with Coco, asking her questions about Chicago, a town he knew well.
By three a.m. the party had dispersed and Tom was nowhere to be found.
“I’ve had a lovely evening, Paolo,” Coco felt the effects of the wine and the drugs still coursing through her body, “but I should go back to my hotel tonight.” She smiled and tried to stand, worried that if she stayed things would get out of hand.
“I have dozens of empty rooms here.” Paolo indicated the vast house around them, catching her hand in his. “You sleep here, and maybe in the morning when you’re rested we’ll make love, but not tonight. I’m too tired and you’re too beautiful. Things would be over too quickly.”
Coco couldn’t help smiling at his self-assurance. “Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” she teased. “But I think it’s too soon for sex, even in the morning.”
“Coco?” Paolo lifted her chin in his hand. “Americans have sex. Italians make love. I can show you the difference.”
A blush spread slowly across Coco’s cheeks. This time when Paolo kissed her it was long and sweet, his lips nibbling, softly playing over hers with tender kindness. Coco melted into the kiss, her lips parting as she pressed her body to his and their tongues met for a brief moment, sending a thrilling shiver through her body.
“But not now.” Paolo let her go. “Good night, Coco.” He smiled and turned to go.
Coco didn’t look at the plush room his servant left her in. She didn’t see the fine paintings on every wall or the texture of the bedspread embroidered with silk thread. All she was aware of was the softness of the pillow and the way the bed enveloped her nearly-naked body in perfect comfort. In the morning she would worry about how not to have sex with Paolo. In the morning she would find her way back to Rome.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Only when Coco awoke did the beauty of her surroundings captivate her. Only then did she see the card on her dresser on top of a plush white robe. It said, “I hope you feel rested. Meet me in the sunroom.” To Coco’s dismay the dress she had left on the floor the night before was gone. She would have to wear the robe.
“Paolo?” Coco found him in the giant, glassed in sunroom complete with citrus trees and a pool. “My clothes are gone. I hope you didn’t take them.”
“Of course I did. They’ll be fresh and clean and hanging in your closet in about an hour, I would guess. In the meantime, I suggest you try this.” He held up an enormous strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. “I never like a morning so much as when I eat strawberries for breakfast.”
Coco took the fruit from his hand and bit into it, the flavor erupting on her taste buds like heaven. “Perfection,” she smiled happily. “Like everything here, Paolo… perfection.”
“Yes. That’s the only word for it.” He took her hand in his and kissed her fingers. Ever so slowly he pulled her down beside him.
The sun shone down through the orange trees as morning progressed slowly into afternoon. It was strange to have been forgotten. Coco wondered what had happened to her wayward agent and his friend. But instead of worrying, she ate strawberries and drank champagne, ignoring the hours that slipped by. Anytime she mentioned her pressing schedule or the work she had been doing, Paolo scowled dramatically and fed her another strawberry.
“You work for me now. I saw the proofs from your shoot yesterday, and I’m satisfied that you deserve a rest. I say no work for you today, just champagne, pleasure, good food, and good company.” He smiled and indicated himself.
